“They’re being as helpful as they can. I’ll call the sheriff later. He may be interested in viewing the footage.”
“Maybe, but you’re probably right. The guy was hanging around waiting for the mission to open.” She smiled as she walked into the bakery, the scent of vanilla and chocolate and rich yeast dough stroking Ryder’s senses almost as completely as Shelby did.
He frowned, not comfortable with the thought.
“Wow. This is…insane,” Shelby whispered, clutching his arm for a moment and releasing it just as quickly.
She was right.
The bakery was jam-packed.
“I’ll take care of it,” he responded, shoving his way through the crowd.
A team of reporters stood near the counter, shouting questions above the quiet roar of ordering patrons and busybody visitors. Shelby’s harried young employees scurried from person to person, answering questions, ringing up orders.
Ryder eased his way through the crowd, sidling up next to the loudest of three news crews.
“Leave,” he said quietly, and the anchorwoman frowned.
“Excuse me?” she asked as if she weren’t sure she’d heard him right.
“Ms. Simons won’t be answering any questions today. If you’re interested in an interview, you’ll have to call ahead of time and set up an appointment.”
“But—”
“You’ve been asked to leave, and now you’re trespassing. I suggest you take my advice and go before I call the police.” He left her openmouthed and unhappy, and moved on to the next crew.
Ten minutes later, the crowd had thinned to a manageable number, air circulated through the small bakery once again, the harried young girl and her tattooed male counterpart behind the counter were working in harmony once again.
Mission accomplished.
He turned to call Shelby over, but she’d disappeared. He could hear her voice drifting from the kitchen, and he knew she was safe.
He could leave, go to his meeting and get on with his day. Only he wasn’t sure he should leave before he made sure Shelby was okay.
As a matter of fact, he was certain he shouldn’t.
He walked to the counter, smiled at the blonde teenager. “Is Shelby in the back?”
“Yes, I think so. I mean, she could have walked out the back door, but she never does that.” She glanced over her shoulder, and Ryder took the opportunity to step around the counter.
“Sir! You can’t come back here.”
“I just did.” He smiled again and walked into the kitchen.
“What are you doing back here? Git!” A blue-haired lady came at him with a broom, and Ryder sidestepped her swing.
Dottie. The bane of his existence. Refusing to serve him coffee and doughnuts had been bad enough. Now she was trying to beat him with a broom. He grabbed it before she could swing again, slipping it out of her hands.
“Where’s Shelby?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Dottie! There’s no need to be rude.” Shelby stepped out of a walk-in pantry, a huge bag of flour clutched in her hands.
“That thing is as big as you are. You should have gotten that tattooed employee of yours to carry it.” Ryder took it from her hands, and she shrugged.
“I’m stronger than he is. Dottie, why don’t you go up front and help? They’re swamped up there.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then! I guess I’ll go.” Dottie huffed away.
“Sorry about that. Dottie has…issues.” Shelby opened the sack of flour and measured several cups into a standing mixer.
“Apparently I’m one of them.”
“Everyone is one of them.”
“Yet you employ her.”
“I inherited her from my grandmother. They were good friends. When Beulah passed away, I got Dottie.” She smiled, finally looking into his eyes. “I thought you’d left. You have that meeting to get to, remember?”
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Aside from a raging headache, I’m fine.”
“You need to go home, Shelby. That was a pretty serious head injury you sustained.”
“It’s not the head injury that’s giving me a headache. It’s all the tears. I always get headaches when I cry.” She poured milk into the mixer, added eggs and soft butter and sugar, her hands pretty and efficient. He’d like to take her to the gun range. Show her how to handle a semiautomatic. He had a feeling she’d be a good shot.
“Yeah? Then I’ll have to be sure to never make you cry.”
“Why would you? You come in for doughnuts and coffee every day. That’s money in my pocket. Which makes me very happy.” She offered a tight smile and turned her attention to the bowl. Obviously, he’d hit a nerve.
“Is that doughnut batter? Because I never did get my breakfast,” he said.
“No. It’s sweet bread. I’m going to put it in the fridge to proof, and then I’m going home. I need to get Mazy settled, and I need to settle a little, too. It’s been a rough morning.” She covered the bowl with a damp cloth, slid it onto a rolling rack with ten other bowls and pushed everything into a walk-in refrigerator.
“Where’s the dog? I’ll get her for you and walk you to your car.”
“Ryder, I appreciate your help, but I don’t need it anymore.” She brushed flour from her apron, and he brushed it from her cheek, his fingers grazing silky flesh.
She stilled.
“Ryder…”
“You had flour on your cheek.”
“Oh. Okay.” She rubbed the spot he’d touched, not meeting his eyes.
“So, where’s the dog?”
“Dottie tied her up out back,” she responded and then pressed her lips together. “You tricked that out of me.”
“No trick, Shelby Ann. You’re exhausted and traumatized. Whether you want to admit it or not, you need a little help.”
She sighed. “Fine. Go get Mazy. I’ll meet you out front. My car is—”
“The big pink Cadillac.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s the only car that’s here every time you are.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll meet you out there in a couple of minutes. I just need to give my crew some instructions.” She hurried away. Ran, actually.
He walked out the back exit, freed the ungrateful Mazy and carried her to Shelby’s car. He waited there, holding the struggling dog as tightly as he could without squashing her. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. Twenty. He called work, rescheduled the meeting for later in the afternoon, tapped his fingers on the Caddie’s hood.
Where was she?
Probably mixing another batch of sweet bread or keeping Dottie from attacking a patron.